Long Distance Relationships
by Suffering Angel
Summary: Every e-mail needs a response. Set about V2 issue 10


I don't own YA

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**_Long Distance Relationships_**

It's the routine they've fallen into. Run around, stay out of trouble, practice magic. Lunch is had in a small diner they're already familiar with and they all know what to order before they arrive at the place. What comes next might as well be scripted.  
Noh goes on about a new artist he discovered. David throws back half a reply before Loki cracks a joke. Kate joins in on the fun and even America snaps at Loki twice. It's all been done to death, feels rehearsed. Billy sees no point in joining in. He's not left to his silence, however. David makes a clever connection _somehow_ to the fantasy genre and expects Billy to answer. There's this look in his eyes again that makes it hard for Billy to look straight at him. _Guilt_... almost. It gets several words out of him but Billy has as little interest in talking as he does in the rest of his meal.  
Belly filled enough, he leaves enough to cover his share of the bill before standing up. They all know where he's going from there. None stop him. They know they can't, anyway.

"You again?" Is the disinterested groan that welcomes him when he walks into the internet cafe across the street. The guy behind the counter mumbles throughout their exchange but it's over before long - he's as anxious to stare back at his phone as Billy is to get to a computer.  
His phone's too small and uncomfortable to type on for this. Using the ship's terminal makes him feel too exposed and self-conscious. Not the state to be in for what he needs to do.  
Taking a deep breath, Billy sits down and logs into his email. Spam, mails from friends, forum and yamblr notifications. A mountain of mails from Wanda and his family, urging him to come back or at least call them. He sends a single mail to all of them, saying he's fine sans a minor cold. He thanks whoever watches over him Wanda didn't ask Tony or Hank to trace his mails yet (or found him herself) and clicks 'send'.  
He crosses his arms behind his head and leans back. That was the easy part, he knows and stares at the ceiling for a while. The harder part comes when he actually sifts through his mailbox, looking, looking... and then he finds it, and that's where the hardest part starts.

It hasn't been that long but it's been far too long already, enough to make Billy's throat tighten and dry when he finally sees the unread mail labeled specifically due to its sender. It's a mail from Teddy, and it's the lone form of contact Billy has left with the person he used to share a home and a bed with.  
He opens it and feels the same tightening in his chest as he did with the past mails. Is it long? Is it short? He can't tell. The text goes on, covering an impressive part of the screen and forcing him to scroll down. None of it's what he needed to hear, even less is what he wants. He reads it out loud, muttering the words under his breath. It's the only way to not hear Teddy's voice in his ears, imagine his laughter, or the way his voice breaks at times...  
Billy closes his eyes, but that only brings up the mental image of Teddy's face, the gentle eyes, the hesitant smile...  
He opens his eyes with a gasp and runs his hand over his face. _Get a grip, Kaplan_, he hisses inwardly and finally turns to type in his reply.  
It's never easy. Every paragraph is rewritten numerous times, pieces chopped off and moved around. This one's too long, this one's too energetic, this one... too pleading. 'Please come back' stares at him from the screen, the cursor blinking idly next to it. Billy's sight is clouded with tears.  
He deletes the entire draft and palms his face. Gets himself a drink. Tries again. He goes a bit more slowly this time, thinks as he writes rather than in retrospect. Tries to keep a moderately optimistic tone. Things are ok - he's handling it. Teddy should focus on figuring things out, while Billy...  
Billy trains and learns and makes sure that regardless of did he or didn't he, he absolutely _won't_.  
It's with that sense of morbid determination that he finally reaches the mail's end. _I love you, I miss you, hope to hear from you soon_ are all deemed too sincerely desperate or at least _demanding_, so he settles for _take care of yourself_ that drags another pant out of him before he sends it.

Next come the stillness and the emptiness, a sense of loss and helplessness. Billy stares at the screen but nothing happens. Tick tock goes the clock on the wall and he'd have kept staring, waiting for a reply he knows won't come for a while if not for the need to pull his nose. That makes it harder to ignore the moistness in his eyes that's been dripping down his cheeks for a while now, and he wipes it away before taking his leave. He hopes no one'd be there, but he knows better, so he's hardly surprised to find America waiting for him. Did he really take that long, he wonders and runs a hand over his face again just to make sure it's dry. She gives him that look that's her specialty, that unreadable indifference that if he squints hard enough bleeds a bit into concern, before she turns away and starts down the street. He sucks a deep breath to calm himself and catches up.


End file.
